


La Chanson des Vieux Amants

by Irrealia



Series: Tumblr Ficlets - Bagginshield Edition [5]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe, Dwarves Are Satyrs, First Time, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Porn with Feelings, Scent Kink, Size Kink, Smut, because reasons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-22
Updated: 2016-10-22
Packaged: 2018-08-24 02:01:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8351902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Irrealia/pseuds/Irrealia
Summary: A smuttier conclusion to Ch. 3 of HiddenKitty's Tweens and Satyrs, Part II, in honor of Ruto's birthday. Many thanks also to @shipsicle for the quick beta! You are all beautiful shining stars.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rutobuka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rutobuka/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Tweens and Satyrs, Part II](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6913990) by [HiddenKitty](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HiddenKitty/pseuds/HiddenKitty). 



Thorin was back. And Thorin smelled good.

This was a fact, much like his height, the curl of his fully grown horns, or the dreadful scars on his back.  

Thorin smelled very very good.

Of course, he had always smelled good to Bilbo, smelled like warm wool and clean sweat, of damp earth and pipeweed. And Bilbo remembered, of course, when they were younger, that Thorin would disappear around “leaf-fall,” and he vaguely remembered Thorin being a bit self-conscious about his smell, but Bilbo felt certain that he’d have remembered Thorin smelling so…. so….

He didn’t have words for it, really. It was a smell, yes, it was a sense that he perceived with his nose, but it also seemed to be a compulsion that he felt with his whole body, to be near Thorin, to wrap himself up in that scent, to wrap himself up in _Thorin_ , and well, he was older now, wasn’t he. He’d had some time.

He knew what he wanted.

They were sat outside Bag End, idly smoking and catching up. They got off to an awkward start (and how could it be otherwise, after so many years spent apart?). But Bilbo soon found himself chatting to Thorin with as much ease as he ever had done, except also a great deal less ease because _Thorin smelled so intolerably good_.

“You said my garden looked well,” said Bilbo, entirely too suddenly. “Perhaps you would like to see it?”

“Of course,” said Thorin.

Bilbo took Thorin’s hand before his mind could explain why that was possibly not the best idea, and dragged Thorin off to the farthest corner of the garden, shaded by a beautiful oak tree.

“It’s cooler here,” said Bilbo, who couldn’t help noticing that Thorin was glistening with a light sheen of sweat, and fearing, now that they’d broken their lively stream of conversation, that it would become awkward again.

But Thorin just lightly hummed his agreement and settled himself against the oak tree, and Bilbo settled himself next to him. Their conversation picked right back up, as amiable as ever, but without even the formality of a bench to sit on, Bilbo found himself gravitating towards Thorin, inching closer, tilting towards him, until suddenly Bilbo was quite firmly pressed up against Thorin’s side, and with the height Thorin had gained over all their years apart, Bilbo’s nose was right next to Thorin’s armpit, the source of so much of that wonderful fragrance.

He inhaled, eyelashes fluttering closed and tickling Thorin’s skin, just breathing in the scent, and he was quite lost to everything else until he felt Thorin’s broad hand on his arm, pulling Bilbo a bit more upright, pulling him a bit _off_ of Thorin.

Bilbo’s self-awareness was immediately restored by this gentle action, and mortification followed in its wake. His cheeks flushed a brilliant red, as did his nose, as did the top of his chest—every part of Bilbo seemed to be trying to outdo the roses that climbed the fence in front of them, affording Bilbo and Thorin this dangerous privacy. “I’m _so sorry_ ,” he gasped, daring a look up at Thorin. “Here you are, just come back, and, and, and….”

In truth, Bilbo wasn’t sure he knew the words for what he was sorry for, but he imagined he knew how Bluebell felt now, after their disastrous kiss.

“Bilbo,” said Thorin, and his rich, deep voice was rather more gentle than Bilbo had expected. “If I did not want you by my side, why would I be sitting here with you?”

“Oh,” said Bilbo. Of course. Thorin couldn’t have been unaware of Bilbo’s slow slide onto him, and had a whole garden of space if he hadn’t wanted Bilbo quite so close.

“I feared you were falling asleep in the heat,” added Thorin.

“Oh,” repeated Bilbo, whose blush intensified. “No, it’s just that, well…” His voice trailed off; he wasn’t very used to talking about these things. Thorin had been a fantasy for so long, someone who only crossed his path in dreams, but now he was real and here and he smelled so good.

“Youjustsmelledsogood,” said Bilbo, the truth rushing out of him all at once.

Thorin looked slightly surprised, and then he laughed softly, and then he patted his thigh, inviting Bilbo onto his lap. Bilbo raised his eyebrows in a silent question, but when Thorin nodded, he climbed carefully on top of Thorin, his legs spread wide by the sheer breadth (and fluff) of the satyr’s thighs.

“There,” said Thorin. “Now you are even closer.”

He was, there was no denying that. He was _on top_ of Thorin, and the whole situation was so unreal, and so lovely, that for once, Bilbo’s powers of thought failed him. He surrendered wholly to the compulsion to surround himself with the scent, with _Thorin_. He rested his head against Thorin’s furry chest, burrowing in, taking deep breath after deep breath. He wriggled about, making himself comfortable, and Thorin’s well-muscled arms (had they always been so brawny and so broad?) wrapped around him, held him tight.

Then Thorin spoke, and it seemed that the same kind of compulsion that drove Bilbo now seemed to be moving him, as well. “Please,” he said, gentle, breathy, hoarse. “Don’t… stop moving.”

“Oh,” said Bilbo, who was beginning to worry words would never come back to him. He’d been so literally and figuratively wrapped up in Thorin that he’d barely realised that his prick was stiff, and moreover, that Thorin’s prick (heavens above, _Thorin’s prick_ ) seemed to be… well… there was something rubbing eagerly against him from underneath and _of course_ it was Thorin’s prick, and Bilbo’s eyes went wide with understanding.

“Oh _fuck_ ,” was what he said, and that really was the worst word he knew, but at least it was a proper word this time.

Thorin’s hand gripped his arm again, strong and steady. “Bilbo?” he asked, stilling himself for a moment.

“We’re really doing this,” said Bilbo, and then it was Thorin’s turn to blush.

“I imagined it,” said Thorin. “When I was alone at night, when I was cold in the north.”

“I imagined it too,” said Bilbo. “More times than I can count. And now we’re really….” His voice trailed off, and he shook his head in disbelief, and that much motion set Thorin grinding up against him again, and then Bilbo was fumbling with his trousers, and Thorin’s hand found his prick, and somehow his hand was guided towards _Thorin’s prick_ , foreign in shape and _size_ , Green Lady the _size_ of it! But Bilbo wrapped his hand around it as best he could, and they rocked themselves into one another, there under the oak tree, there in the garden of Bag End.

It wasn’t long before Bilbo was spilling into Thorin’s hand for the first time; Thorin made to take his hand away, but Bilbo shook his head and murmured, “Keep going.” Bilbo collapsed against Thorin’s chest, his hips working frantically now, and Bilbo’s wrist worked in time with his hips. He could feel Thorin’s cock growing that much harder, everything in the satyr’s body growing tense and taut, and in a brief clear flash it occurred to Bilbo that for all their differences, this at least was the same. The thought brought him to his second climax; this time Thorin did not try to take his hand away, but his eyes were wide with wonder when Bilbo gazed up at him from beneath drowsy eyelids.

“Once more, I think,” said Bilbo, answering the unspoken question. “I want… don’t hold back, Thorin, on my account….” Bilbo tightened his grip around Thorin, and then lurched sideways awkwardly, so that he could bury his nose right in the crook of Thorin’s arm as he continued to thrust into Thorin’s very sticky hand, his free hand tangling in Thorin’s long hair, tugging curls and braids.

With very little warning, Thorin thrust his hips up and reached his own peak, his cock giving great spurts that covered them both with a frankly alarming amount of fluid. The sharp smell of it mixed headily with the warm blanket of scent that had driven Bilbo so out of his mind, and just as quickly he was coming again, filled with a pleasure so blinding his vision went black, and he could see all of Varda’s stars before him. He came back to himself slowly, still straddling Thorin, his mouth set indelibly into the widest and silliest of grins.

Thorin’s face was a bit graver, but he too looked distinctly pleased.

“Mother’s going to know,” said Bilbo, mouthing at Thorin’s chest. “Even if we somehow manage to get ourselves cleaned up, she’s going to know.”

At this, Thorin looked very worried, so very like the shy satyr Bilbo had met when they were both children, so uncertain of hobbits and their ways. “Will she mind very much?” he asked.

Bilbo pondered that for a moment. Would his mother really mind? She was the one, after all, who’d more or less insisted Bilbo and Thorin spend time alone together, the way he saw other mothers doing with their sons and daughters. “I don’t think so,” said Bilbo, and he knew that it was true as soon as he’d said it.

“Besides,” he added, “we’ve been married for ages.”

~Fin~


End file.
